


Uninvited

by imunbreakabledude



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Because Villanelle NEEDS to see Eve in that dress, F/F, Fluff, One Shot, inspired by the new teaser, sort of season 3 spoilers?, the reunion that will NOT happen like this but we can imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22836184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imunbreakabledude/pseuds/imunbreakabledude
Summary: As Villanelle is getting ready for her wedding, an uninvited guest surprises her in her dressing room.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 22
Kudos: 170





	Uninvited

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the teaser with Eve in [_that_ dress](https://mijuoh.tumblr.com/post/190950025346/rise-up) and, knowing that we will most likely not get to see her wear it on the show, I had to make it happen myself.

Villanelle always knew she’d make a beautiful bride.

In these solemn final few minutes of maidenhood, she’s left to her own devices, getting ready all alone in her bridal suite. Isabella is only a few dozen meters away though one thin wall, but they decided to go traditional and not see each other in their dresses before walking down the aisle. Isabella is big on traditional values in pretty much every way, aside from marrying a woman. Villanelle finds it charming how utterly _normal_ Isabella is, how the type of flowers for the centerpieces was the highest-stakes decisions she’d ever had to make.

On the other side of that wall, Villanelle knows Isabella is surrounded by all of her female relatives, jabbering in rapid Spanish, and fixing her up with a dozen skilled hands. Villanelle’s room is the polar opposite. Lacking a mother of the bride or anyone else she’d care to have hemming and hawing over her, once she dismisses the makeup artist and hairdresser (the finest in Barcelona; only the best will do on her wedding day) she is left to gaze on her beauty, alone.

This is the last time she will be alone, though, isn’t it? She is about to be joined to someone else. Officially. Legally. Eternally. It’s not the first time Villanelle’s been in love, but it is the least dramatic, and the most socially acceptable.

She stares, enraptured, in the trifold mirror, admiring herself from every angle. This is the last time she can admire her dress solely for herself, for once she walks out into the garden, in front of Isabella’s family and the other assorted guests, she will belong to her wife; instead of beholding herself, she will be beheld. A part of something greater. One half of a marriage. The goal that most normal women aspire to for their whole lives.

Villanelle must admit she cuts a fine figure in her sleek A-line dress, the ivory contrasting with her skin, bringing out her natural glow. The multilayer silk crepe dress is from the Romona Kezeva collection, and cost her over eight thousand euro, but it’s well worth the cost for how well it shapes Villanelle’s figure. The body itself is plain – Villanelle didn’t want any intricate lace or flashy beading to distract from her own beauty. The shape follows Villanelle’s own body shape, then gives way to a tulle train several meters long that drags on the floor behind her. And of course, the plunging V-neckline serves the double purpose of showing off her best assets, while also being a cheeky pun about her name (a pun that will go unappreciated, since Isabella knows her as 'Rosa').

One hand goes up to the textured chignon that had taken the hairdresser over an hour to set. Villanelle knows she shouldn’t touch it, but it’s held in place by a veritable army of bobby pins and an industrial amount of hairspray in it, so what’s the harm? 

As her fingers play idly on the loops of her golden hair, she hears a click and a creak as the door of the room opens. Someone coming to tell her it’s time for the ceremony? Well, they can walk all the way over to fetch her – she’s not going to run like a doggie when a bell rings on her wedding day. Then she hears a voice that makes her heart stop.

“Wear it down.”

It can’t be. That voice must be a memory, must be from the beyond–

The hallucination becomes visual, and Villanelle sees another figure appear behind her in her reflection at all three angles.

Eve.

Villanelle’s pulse begins to race, and subconsciously, her hand drops from her hair to instinctively finger at the spot on her dress right over the scar on her abdomen.

A ghost. It must be a ghost. Why here, why now?

“No ‘hello’?” Eve says, smiling a little bit. Villanelle can’t bear it any longer, she turns around, expecting to see empty air, to have the presence confirmed as a trick of her imagination, but there Eve is, apparently solid.

Villanelle says the only thing she can think of. “You were not invited.”

“It’s very rude of me, I know,” Eve says, clasping her hands. “But I heard through the grapevine, and I didn’t want to miss your special day.”

“You could have at least dressed properly,” Villanelle says, curling her lip at the same long, ugly winter coat Eve has on. One of her classic looks; apparently death and coming back to life has not changed her fashion sense. Probably hiding a bargain-bin turtleneck underneath.

“Oh, but I did,” Eve says. She unzips the coat and lets it slip to the floor, and Villanelle’s breath catches in her throat at the sight that is revealed. An incredible dress. Blood red, sleeveless, with yes, a sort of mock-turtleneck, but a cutout on the chest revealing even more cleavage than Villanelle’s own dress. To top it all off, she has a fine red train of her own, spilling out onto the floor once it’s freed from the confines of the coat.

Villanelle realizes her mouth has dropped open and struggles to reclaim control of her faculties. Eve notices Villanelle’s speechlessness and takes the initiative to take a step closer, leaving only a foot or so between them. “I can’t wait to meet your fiancée.”

Villanelle can’t stand it any longer, she has to be sure if this Eve is an apparition or really standing before her. She reaches out, slowly, tentatively, until her hand brushes Eve’s cheek, then recoils fearfully once she feels that it’s solid, warm, real. “You’re alive,” Villanelle says, finally, stating the obvious.

“No thanks to you, but I rebounded alright,” Eve laughs, her voice low and husky. 

“Why are you here?” Villanelle asks, shaking her head.

“I wanted to see you,” Eve says.

“On my wedding day?” Villanelle, moving past her initial shock, feels her heart starting to pound, her cheeks starting to flush as the full force of her anger fills her veins. “How dare you?”

Instead of the expected comeback, something along the lines of _fuck-you-for-shooting-me_ , Eve purses her lips and glances down to the floor. “I couldn’t keep myself away. I had to see you – had to stop you.”

“You broke my heart,” Villanelle says, trying to keep her face steady. “Do you know how long it took me to get over you?”

“About as long as it took me,” Eve says. “Which is to say, you aren’t. Over me.”

Eve reaches up, tracing her fingers over Villanelles shoulder, down to her collarbone, briefly dipping down her V-neck, but reversing course and coming up to grip the back of her neck. Villanelle feels her entire body erupting with goosebumps, as Eve pulls Villanelle’s face to hers, for a kiss.

For all the times Villanelle imagined this moment, she never once considered this scenario. Eve taking the lead. Eve in that dress. Eve here to crash her wedding. That reminder of reality is enough to make Villanelle open her eyes and yank her face away.

“Eve Polastri!” Villanelle exclaims, wiping her mouth. “I’m engaged, and you are married.” She raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

“When has that ever mattered to you?” Eve says, fingers playing at the straps of Villanelle’s dress.

“I won’t let you make a sinner out of me.”

Eve throws her head back and barks a loud laugh. An unhinged laugh, which makes something tremble very deep inside of Villanelle.

“I didn’t come back from the dead to take ’no’ for an answer.” Eve reaches her other arm around Villanelle’s waist and pulls her closer, so their bodies are pressed right up against each other. Villanelle can feel how Eve’s chest heaves with every breath. “Are you seriously telling me you haven’t dreamed of this every day since you shot me?”

Villanelle isn’t an idiot (she wouldn’t still be alive this long if she was), so she knows she can’t trust Eve in this moment. Not least because she might break Villanelle’s heart again, but also because she might be sent by _them_. The Twelve, MI6, the Peel estate, any of the many “them”s that currently want Villanelle dead and buried. Who knows what hand might be feeding Eve these days? She must’ve been targeted, made an offer, or a threat, and sent here to ruin Villanelle, to get her to let her guard down.

But when Eve kisses her, roughly, passionately, Villanelle realizes that she doesn’t care. Let them come. Let them try to destroy her again, because haven’t they failed enough times already?

And now, with these lips upon hers, with her fingers now passionately running through Eve’s wild hair, she can finally admit the truth she’s been trying to bury for six months: a life without Eve Polastri in it is not a life worth living.

Somewhere outside, Villanelle hears the string quartet warming up. She pauses to catch her breath, leans down to press her forehead against Eve’s. “Thank you for showing up uninvited.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Eve says, and Villanelle swallows. Here it comes – the betrayal. Sooner than anticipated. Eve lets go of Villanelle, turns and bends down to where her coat is lying on the floor, her red train floating behind her like a spray of blood. She fumbles with the zippered pocket of the dress, cursing, and Villanelle rolls her eyes. What is Eve going to bring out now? A little knife, a tiny gun? So predictable. They’ve been here before.

She is utterly unprepared when Eve turns around to face her, but stays low – on one knee, in her long skirt. She looks up at Villanelle and opens the small black velvet box in her hand. “Oksana Anatolyevna Astankova, alias Villanelle, will you marry me instead of this Spanish broad?”

Villanelle bites her lip. Can this really be happening? Once again, she doesn’t know what to say, and all she can manage is, “Her name is Isabella.”

Eve holds out the ring. “Before you say anything, I know you want a bigger diamond. That’s a later problem. After pretending to be dead and lying low for six months I’m not exactly rolling in the cash.”

“I have never been proposed to,” Villanelle says.

“I’ve never proposed, so it’s good to know this is new for both of us.” Eve holds the ring a little higher. “Well?”

“I will think about it,” Villanelle says, taking the ring with its half-carat solitaire diamond, and placing it on her finger. It’s only worth a fraction of the ring that she bought (well, stole) for Isabella, but the notion that Eve emptied her dwindling savings account to buy it gives it a sentimental charm.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Eve says, standing and taking Villanelle’s face in her hands for one more kiss, this one briefer, sweeter. She releases her, then bends to grab her coat from the floor. “So should we head out?”

Villanelle glances out the window to the gardens, where the chairs are now full of guests. “I suppose we’d better go before someone comes looking for me.”

“Wanna go grab a burger or something?” Eve says, zipping her coat, taking care not to snag the zipper on the fabric of her dress. “I’m fucking famished.”

“Your treat,” Villanelle says, taking Eve’s hand. “It’s my wedding day, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> panic about the ticking clock to season 3 with me on [tumblr](https://imunbreakabledude.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/not_breakable) <3


End file.
